


Caught

by HourofWakening



Category: Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: F/F, rated M for the third chapter, tesfemslash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22842391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HourofWakening/pseuds/HourofWakening
Summary: Dagoth Araynys finds more than she'd hoped for in Mournhold.Written for days 1, 2, 3, and 8 of TES Femslash Week 2020. Thanks Sasha for organising this week!
Relationships: Dagoth Araynys/Indoril Almalexia
Kudos: 10
Collections: TES: Femslash Week 2020





	1. Dawn

At dawn, as the sun began to creep over the city of Mournhold and the grass was crisp and fresh with dew, a nereid and a dremora met on a hill in the palace district, overlooking the city, to exchange notes. Flushed and thrumming with nervous energy, they discarded their masks and lay on their backs in the grass, listening to the crashing of the nearby waterfall, and watched the stars fade and the sky lighten.

“So, tell me what happened,” said the dremora, at last, as he took up some long blades of grass to weave a bracelet.

The nereid laughed and covered her face. Her hair, long and tangled from dancing, was beginning to turn from greyish blue to black, giving the appearance of a deep pool on a cloudy day; the illusion magic was wearing off.

“I’m in love,” she declared.

“With the spider.”

“ _Yes_ , with the spider… look!” She held her left hand aloft so the dremora could see the red imprint of a kiss pressed onto the back of her hand, which she vowed she would never wash again. “Did you see how gracefully she danced? Did you see how she turned her head? I thought I was going to _die_ when she looked at me… do you think her eyes really were that colour? I couldn’t bear it if they were an illusion. Her hair smelled so sweet, I don’t know if it was a perfume or her soap, but she smelled like lilacs, and did you see how finely woven her dress was – it really was like a spider’s web, it kept tickling me when we were dancing – I could feel her bare _skin_ through the lace…”

“It was a very nice dress,” conceded the dremora.

“Forget the dress! Her hand was a thing of true beauty, cousin! I nearly fainted when she touched my face; do you think she would have caught me in her arms if I had fainted? Maybe I should have…”

The dremora rolled his eyes. “I thought you did faint, and that’s why she had to spirit you away into the hallway, just the two of you.”

“ _Well_ …” She drew out the word into two syllables, unable to keep the delirious smile from her face. Then, rolling onto her side, she propped herself up on one arm and looked the dremora firmly in the eye. “Do you know who she is?”

“No, I honestly don’t,” he said, sighing. He supposed he should be flattered that she expected him to know every detail about the court and its activities, now that he had been drawn into its inner circle. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes! Anyone who kisses me like that I need to see again.”

“Well, we can try.”

The nereid gave a small, wistful sigh and lay down again, with one hand over her face to shield her eyes from the newly risen sun. The dizzy high of the ball was maturing into a hearty morning hangover.

“And how was your evening, then? I know who that guar herder was, by the way.”

“Shut up, Araynys.”

She caught a glimpse of a sharp, faintly guilty look in the dremora’s eyes before he snatched up his mask and covered his face again; he said no more, stubborn as the fragile morning was to snatch away the magic of the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably add that this story takes place circa 1E 420, several years into the First Council era and Nerevar and Almalexia's reign.


	2. Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mournhold: City of Light, City of Magic.

On the journey from Vvardenfell, by ship from Sadrith Mora to the northern coast of Stonefalls and then by silt strider south across the fungal plane, Araynys busied herself putting the finishing touches on her costume for the masquerade ball to be held on her second night in Mournhold. She had spent the past lonely weeks in the Dagoth stronghold working on it, first laying out the cloth – a slippery, shining silk dyed greenish-blue, the colour of a clear freshwater pool in the forest – over the stone floor of her room, and lovingly cutting and shaping it, then sewing the pieces together by hand with silver thread. She had sung, softly and only to herself, as she worked, and her song made the air around her ripple with magicka, drawing the stronghold cats to her to curl up and bask in the veil of serenity she had created unthinkingly.

Now, in the hollow compartment of the silt strider’s carapace, concentrating hard to keep her stand steady through the rocking gait of the great arthropod, Araynys sewed the last of the beads onto her costume. They were tiny spheres of glass bought by the scoop in the nearby market; some clear, looking like real preserved water droplets, and others blue and green. As it grew dark, she conjured a glowing ball of light to float about the compartment while she sewed the beads onto the dress in dewy strands that made a soft clinking sound when the fabric shifted over her lap. She had designed the dress so that the beads would fan out around her as she danced; indeed, she had practiced, alone in her room in the stronghold, hoping that her provincial dancing instruction would be up to the standard of the royal court.

When the caravaner brought the silt strider to a halt, Araynys alighted with a look of wonder on her face and brushed away his suggestion that she take a carriage to her destination.

“I’ll walk, thank you,” she said, and set off with her trunk through the cobbled streets of the Resdaynian capital. She held her conjured ball of light in the fist of one hand, so that light seeped through her fingers.

Although it was now evening, and this was her first visit to Mournhold, Araynys was not afraid; she knew that she could cast a shield spell faster than a thief could draw a dagger, and the main streets of the city were lit with enchanted lanterns. Besides, after two years of reading Voryn’s letters, in which he devoted pages of careful detail to Mournhold, its streets, its landmarks, and its people, Araynys felt like she knew it almost as well as Sadrith Mora, where she made frequent trips to buy fabric and alchemical supplies. She was thinking already of how she might contrive to stay in Mournhold beyond the single term she was to study at Shad Astula, the nearby academy of magic. It would certainly please her cousin, who had been trying for years to convince her to come to stay.

Voryn lived in an upstairs apartment in the temple district, a short walk from the palace walls. Ever since he had become friendly with Sotha Sil and begun to advise the First Council on north-eastern Chimer politics, he had spent much of his time there, and Araynys was sure that she would recognise most of the most important mer at court from the vivid descriptions in his letters. Sotha Sil, a mage and scholar like her cousin, with a line between his eyes from his near-permanent frown; Almalexia, the warrior queen, who was both mighty and fiercely attentive to her subjects; the poet Vivec, whose very presence at court drove the more old fashioned nobles, obsessed with family and blood, mad; and, finally, Nerevar, who was only a soldier when Araynys had met him, years ago when he had come to win the Grandmaster’s support, but who was now the king. Voryn had devoted pages of writing to him alone.

She was proud of her cousin and pleased that he had managed to escape the anxious, suffocating grip of his father for a promising career at the Resdaynian court, but she had felt his absence keenly over the past years. Out of the eight Dagoth children – four of them the sons of the Grandmaster, with Voryn the second eldest, and four of them distant Dagoth cousins fostered or adopted into his household – Voryn had always been her favourite, and she his. Thus, she was not surprised when she stepped into his apartment, and into his embrace, and felt immediately more at home there than in the place she had left.

The apartment was small, just several rooms, and looked exactly as Voryn’s bedroom in the Dagoth stronghold always had: dark and cluttered with books and papers and the stubs of candles, melted in on themselves, with his harp standing near the sofa and an assortment of alchemical ingredients drying on every available surface of the living room. Voryn himself looked exhausted, his eyes bracketed with dark circles and his hands stained with pen ink, but he only laughed when Araynys admonished him.

“Don’t they let you sleep, Voryn?”

“There’s a lot of work to do,” he said, peevishly.

She prodded his stomach, about to give a quick retort, but then paused and frowned.

“Don’t they feed you, either? Come on, I brought some of that spice mix you like, from the market. We can make saltrice dahl.”

Voryn perked up at that, and the cousins set about cooking their meal together, laughing and bickering and getting in each other’s way, just as they had done all their lives at home. They ate sitting cross-legged on cushions around a low table, their faces warmed by the steam rising from the bowls of spicy dahl in their laps. 

“So,” Voryn began, speaking slowly and with care, “how is father?”

“Fine… well, he kicked out another healer and we’re still waiting for the replacement to arrive, but other than that he’s fine. Your stepmother has been making him get out more. You know, I think he expects me to come back with a written report about how you are and what you’re up to. That’s probably why he let me come.”

Voryn frowned. “You should feel able to do as you like, Rayna. You don’t owe him –”

“I _do_. Gilvoth…”

“Is dead.” A firm edge had crept into his voice. “I wish you would consider staying here, in Mournhold. I’ll be moving to a bigger place soon; you know there’s always room for you.”

“I am. Considering it, I mean.”

“Rayna…” Voryn took her hand and squeezed it in gentle reassurance. “You don’t need to feel guilty anymore. You never did.”

She had to look away for a moment, dashing the back of her free hand across her face. 

“Thank you, Vorya.”

That evening, as she prepared for bed in Voryn’s study-turned-second bedroom, which was even more cluttered with books than the rest of the apartment, she found she had little need of her usual protective wards to soothe herself to sleep. Away from the miserable Dagoth stronghold, where Voryn’s surviving brothers fought like cats and the ghost of Gilvoth lurked behind every door, she felt more at peace than she had in years. She would stay. She _had_ to stay – damn the Grandmaster to Oblivion.

On her second night in Mournhold, before the masquerade ball, a transformation – woven with magic, paint, and costume – took place, and Araynys and Voryn became nereid and dremora. They stood together in front of the grand mirror in Voryn’s bedroom, she in her beaded dress and he in a hooded black robe embroidered with black thread, laughing as they altered their features with Illusion spells.

“I quite like this look,” said Voryn, as he turned his eyes from gold to blood red.

“Maybe you should make it permanent.” Araynys slid another pin into her hair to hold her leaf headdress in place. “You’d certainly turn heads that way.”

“And who says I want heads turned in my direction, Rayna?”

Araynys waved off his attempt at bland innocence. “Come _on_. He’ll be there tonight, I presume?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about. Now… let me do your hair. It should be blue, don’t you think?”

“Fine,” she said with a sigh.

Voryn hid a smile as he ducked behind her and began to work his spell, turning her long black hair, a distinctive Dagoth feature they both shared, cloudy blue. 

Finally, as they stepped out into the fading daylight and made their way on foot to the palace, Araynys slid her arm through Voryn’s, and she knew that his smile was out of joy in seeing her so happy.

“How do you like Mournhold so far, cousin?” he asked, and she laughed and titled her head up to the sky, where birds flew in a wide arc home to roost.

“It’s magic.”


	3. Masquerade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A spider catches a nereid at Mephala's masquerade ball.

As a pastime, masquerade balls were not uncommon among the nobility of Resdayn, but usually the act of disguise was treated lightly, more for amusement than for any real concealment. This masquerade, held annually in honour of Mephala, was different; a total disguise, achieved with both masks and illusion magic, was considered to please the Prince of Secrets.

Of course, at Mephala’s ball, the spider was a favourite mask to wear, and a dozen spiders spun about the ballroom, catching a delightful array of prey: Daedra, aedra, Chimer folk heroes, bards, merchants, and even the Prophet Veloth. But, for Araynys, there was only one – the spider whose dress was knitted in fine black lace and shimmering with jewels, like drops of dew in a web at dawn, and whose hair was covered with a caul of the darkest purple silk, embroidered with gold. Her face, or at least what was visible below her mask, was breathtakingly beautiful, and she moved about the ballroom with grace and purpose, bestowing attention on her dance partners like a gift. For hours, as Araynys danced, and flirted, and tried to solve the riddles her partners gave her, she felt the shape of her always in the corner of her eye, watching without intending to, waiting to be caught.

Well after midnight, Voryn rescued Araynys from the dull clutches of a Temple knight by arriving at her side with two full glasses of sujamma. She had lost track of him several hours before and was happy to rest for the next dance as they took refreshments among the cushions and low tables lining the wall of the ballroom. The sweet vapours of smoking pipes licked around them, a welcome respite from the headiness of sweat and perfumes on the dance floor. 

“You look happy, Rayna,” he observed, smiling beneath his mask.

“I’m pleasantly surprised. You led me to believe that palace dances were boring affairs.”

“They usually are, when you know who is who.” 

“Excuse me,” said an unfamiliar voice, and a guar herder in a simple tunic with a rope tied around his waist swept up beside her. He wore no mask, only a turban over his hair, and Araynys realised that she recognised him; she turned to look at Voryn, eyebrows raised, but he was stubbornly avoiding her eyes. “Forgive my interruption, my lady,” he said, with an apologetic nod to Araynys, “but I’ve come to claim your dremora. We have an engagement for this dance.” 

With a squeeze of her hand and a whispered reminder to meet him at dawn, Voryn took the guar herder’s arm and allowed himself to be led back to the dancing.

“Typical!” she said to herself, sipping her sujamma, but when she turned to make her way to the drinks table to refill her cup the spider was there, standing before her framed by the six arms of silk and wire rising from the back of her bodice, with one gloved hand extended.

“Put that down, nereid, and dance with me,” she said.

Araynys blushed to realise that, while she was watching, the spider had been watching back, after all, and downed the rest of her drink before taking the proffered hand. She could only hope that the spider wouldn’t feel her trembling.

Back in the centre of the ballroom, the spider led, and the nereid followed, but their commitment to the steps of the dance waned as each became more interested in the warmth of their joined hands and the heat in their joined eyes. They were close enough now that Araynys could feel the spider’s bare skin through the lace holes of her dress, warm under the fingers on her waist, and could hardly believe that she had been given the privilege. They made no pretence at playing the usual guessing game, trying to unmask one another; there was no need, for Araynys felt entirely exposed under her gaze, as if her obvious desire had revealed everything already.

In every move, and look, and turn of the spider’s head, there was a burning intensity, not softened but rather strengthened by the gentle touches of her hands as they danced, and the most thrilling part of all was feeling all of this intensity directed at her. As the music flowed, one song to the next, Araynys became aware that she had held this attention far longer than any of the spider’s other partners, and her cheeks grew hot. The spider’s hand slid to her lower back, holding her close for all to see.

Finally, during a pause in the music, the spider lifted Araynys’ hand from her waist, and for a moment Araynys feared that she had grown too familiar and was about to be dismissed, but then the spider ducked her head and pressed a soft kiss to the back of her hand, right above the bone of her wrist. Araynys felt her consciousness flee, and thought was taken over by her body; _lucky hand_ , said the lips, aching with jealousy, _to be kissed by that precious mouth_.

The spider looked up, and for the first time Araynys caught a clear glimpse of her eyes through the mask – they were blue.

“Will you walk with me, nereid?” asked the spider, as if she even had to ask.

“I will,” she replied, regardless.

The spider took her by the hand and led her out of the ballroom, through a darkened corridor and around a corner, into an alcove housing a shrine to Boethiah, with several lit candles illuminating the terrifying face of the prince’s marble statuette. They ducked behind the dais and Araynys felt her back hit a wall, and then the spider was kissing her again, on the mouth this time, one hand cupping her face while the other waved in a vague gesture behind her, sending up several different protective wards instantaneously. At the rush of magicka, Araynys recognised that she was currently in the arms of a powerful mage; she felt her stomach lurch with desire so strong that she whimpered a little into the spider’s mouth. The spider pulled back, watching Araynys intently through her mask.

“Magic excites you.”

“Yes,” she admitted, and conjured her sphere of light, letting it fly from her palm to hang above their heads and illuminate their flushed faces. Her hands settled on the spider’s waist, thumbs moving in slow circles over the lace of her dress. “Will you take off your mask?”

“No. But I will take off this.”

The spider reached up, her quick fingers untying her caul and removing the pins that held her hair in place, and auburn curls tumbled over her shoulders like a wave. The scent of lilacs flooded Araynys’ senses. She let out a breath of delight and ran her fingers through the curls, loving the silky weight of them, loving the spider’s tender lips on hers again, and her hands on her hips, pulling her so close that they were pressed stomach to warm stomach, and then the spider slid one thigh between hers and held her there, pinned against the wall.

“I need – a ledge, or something,” said Araynys, several minutes later, as she began to pant.

“Hmm.” The spider glanced over her shoulder at the shrine to Boethiah, with its dais at about hip height. “Will that do?”

Araynys nodded yes and scrambled to arrange herself on the dais, seated back against Boethiah’s shrine with one knee bent up, foot planted next to her hip.

“The Prince of Plots won’t mind?” she asked with a playful smile as the spider settled between her thighs, and in response the spider threw back her head and laughed, then pushed up her dress.

It was just right, and she gave herself to the moment as the spider kissed her and touched her and made her gush with pleasure. She was laughing, feeling almost delirious, as she came down from it, with the spider watching her face in sleek satisfaction. Before Araynys’ eyes, she held up her hand and licked one glistening finger, and when Araynys’ mouth fell open in shock she slid two fingers inside, gently, as if in supplication. Araynys licked them clean.

“You are most charming, nereid,” she whispered, stroking her cheek with her thumb.

Before Araynys could reply, footsteps and voices in the hallway startled her, and she gasped as if only just remembering where she was.

“Shh, they can neither see nor hear us,” said the spider. “But it is time for us to go back to the ball.”

“I’ll not insult you by asking for your name,” said Araynys as the spider pinned back her lustrous hair and covered it with the caul. “But, if I should ever recognise you, let’s say, at court, should I make myself known?”

At any other time, she might have been shocked by her own boldness, but propriety had long since fled her mind. The spider slid on her gloves, taking her time to make sure they fit just right in the fingers, knowing that Araynys watched every tiny movement of her hands. She cupped Araynys’ face, black silk cool and almost rough against her cheeks.

“ _Yes_.”

One last, joyous kiss, and then the spider dissolved her wards with a flick of her hand and was gone, hurrying down the hallway and back to the raucous crowd in the ballroom. She was well out of sight by the time Araynys realised that there was something in the palm of her hand, and unfurled her fingers to find it there, one of the spider’s earrings – a simple garnet drop set in gold. With the giddy feeling of anticipation rising again in her stomach, Araynys closed her hand again and squeezed it until the hook of the earring bit into her palm and, laughing, she walked out of the palace and into the dawn to meet Voryn. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, the nature of the tagging system means that there's no mystery over the identity of Araynys' spider, but let's pretend, for her sake!


End file.
